Word to the Wise
by LabyrinthDweller
Summary: Young Henry Townshend is selected as the Receiver of Wisdom and the last of the Sacraments by the man in the coat bearing a gift of death.


_Written by hand in a notebook while wearing a brace on my dominant hand, and then typed up while wearing a brace on my dominant hand. The sacrifices I make for you people!_

_Sorry guys, I know the summary is vague, but no Walter/Henry to be found here. This is rated T for little kid blood and...dead things. (I don't want to spoil it)_

_Nine year old Henry is too freaking adorable.  
_

* * *

**Word to the Wise**

Nine year old Henry Townshend stood quietly on the sidewalk, staring up at the blaring TVs behind the dusty glass. There wasn't anything particularly interesting on, he was just looking for a pass time in the midst of his exploring the town. A couple passed behind him so close as to nearly brush his back, as though they had not previously seen him there. He looked down and away from the television, suddenly quite self-conscious. Easing his hands into his pockets, he walked away from the electronics shop. The owner had begun to wonder anyway, watching him from behind the displayed specials.

Henry walked leisurely down the sidewalk, head bent down in between his sheepish shoulders. A pair of lemon drops crinkled in his jeans pocket just beneath his fingertips. He had bought them just ten minutes before and an old candy shop run by a wrinkly plump woman who smelled of dusty flowers. She had shown some motherly interest in the lone boy, but he merely kept his head down, speaking only to thank her for the change.

His parents had let him wander without their supervision or care ever since he was old enough to comprehend his safety. From seven on it was almost as if his parents were in the background to him, merely there for free room and board, and he was nearly ignored in all other matters. His parents were simply more interested in their separate lives paying little attention to even each other. (Or anything for that matter, it seemed.) It was strange to some people to see a boy alone walking the streets. Sometimes he would be asked a few questions by the occasional curious or worried adult, though the questions came less and less often now that his limbs were stretching out and his jaw was losing some softness. He was not lanky by any means, simply tall for his age with long, controlled limbs that aged his appearance by a few years to the inattentive eye. It didn't matter if the candy lady had asked him one of those questions or not, he would do the exact same thing he always did; mutter a sufficient answer and awkwardly continue on.

Henry walked as the sunlight turned from golden to a light orange, stopping when he came to the clock standing in the intersection of Main Street; the old center of Silent Hill.

He was here on vacation. His parents had booked a room at the Lakeview Hotel on the shores of Toluca Lake. They had taken him here a few times before, but each time he always explored the streets as if they were new, gazing in small wonder of everything that made up the old-fashioned town. Appreciating the odd, sad beauty of the buildings, he spent many an afternoon walking the streets, well out of his parents' way.

He looked up at the roman numerals of the clock and his eyes widened in shock behind his unkempt bangs. It seemed that he had lost track of all time. Nearly stumbling in his place as he struggled to swiftly turn around, the boy bolted clear out of the center of town towards the lake.

He was going to be late for dinner.

Not that it was so vitally important to return—he would not be beaten for arriving late. His dinner wouldn't even been stone cold.

It just wouldn't be _there_.

Taking advantage of the sparsely populated sidewalks, he tore down them, avoiding people when he had to with a soft, hasty apology. The old rotting brick on the buildings passed in a dull blur as he ran from the town streets down to Rosewater Park, flying down the stairs and nearly stopping his feet just before he ran off the edge, using the rope fence to help him do so before he toppled down a steep ravine that ultimately ended with Toluca Lake. Gripping the rope fiercely, he gave two frightened pants then pushed away from the edge, racing down the cobblestone towards the bridge that crossed over the mouth of Toluca River emptying from the lake. On the other side of the bridge was the hotel.

It was a rare sunny day in Silent Hill—there was still a mist hanging over the town, but it was far from thick. Everything was quite visible, so he really didn't have any excuse when he nearly crashed into a little girl.

The collision was narrowly avoided. He noticed her at the last second, blurting out a strange cry of shock to get her attention. She turned and saw him, and with a tiny squeal she managed to squirm out of the way before he bowled into her. Tripping over his own feet, Henry struggled to slow down and avoid the girl all together, failing to do so as he stumbled and fell.

He threw out his arms as an attempt to break the fall, but they caught on the girl's dress as she scooted out of the way. She squealed again in response as Henry let out another meek cry. The girl stumbled from his grasp and he fell flat to the ground face down. His chin met the stone hard, his jaw screaming in pain as it snapped shut with the impact, his teeth almost cutting off the tip of his tongue. A rocketing pain made his eyes sting, and warmth burst from his chin. He would've screamed if he could have.

Gurgling and struggling to spit, Henry winced at the coppery taste in his mouth. Keeping his eyes fiercely shut to help dull the pain, he heard the soft yet clumsy clutter of little shoes. A small hand gingerly touched his shoulder, and he groaned and rolled over in response. Wincing, he slowly opened his eyes. The little girl's face hovered above him, cheeks puffed out with remaining baby fat. Her hair was short and brown, falling down around her face. Her eyes were big and green, mouth puckered in a motherly, worried frown. For a brief moment he wondered at how a girl so young could look so mature; until he remembered the pain in his jaw. Sputtering, he struggled to sit up. He had a goal, he remembered that. But right now it hurt too much to think about it. Pathetically whimpering he dragged himself upright, propping himself up on his arms. The girl stepped off to the side and watched as he found his unsteady balance.

"Are you okay?"

Henry pulled his legs up close to him, shoes slipping on the cobblestone. Blinking, he foucused his eyes on her. She seemed to be about five years old or so, perhaps younger. The happy pink dress she wore came down to her knees to meet long socks fastened with velcro sandals. She didn't seem too afraid that his chin was spewing a ridiculous amount of blood—either that or she was very good at hiding it. After a moment of staring at him, the girl reached out a small hand that was still rounded with pudge, and poked the exact center of the wound on his chin.

Henry inhaled sharply and ducked his head away, pulling his limbs close to him as if it could protect him more. His arms wobbled as he pulled his elbows inwards, jeopardizing the support they gave him. The girl quickly retreated her hand with a soft "oh." Henry gritted his teeth. Had she not seen blood before? Did she not know?

He couldn't really blame her. She was young, and obviously well-taken care of. He flinched as she leaned her face closer to his, curiously studying.

"What's your name?"

Looking at her sheepishly, Henry began to stammer past his aching jaw. She stared at him expectantly, a smile stretching across her features the longer he took to answer. His face grew red, only helping the blood flow to his chin as she began to giggle.

"H-H-H—...," he stuttered. Licking his lips, he swallowed the blood in his mouth and tried again to no avail. The girl beamed, and as much as he was embarrassed it wasn't the worst situation he had been in, so he kept on trying.

"H-He-Hen—," he gurgled.

"Eileen!" A voice thundered, cutting Henry and the girl short. Two adults hurried to the girl's side, the woman taking her away and inspecting her for cuts and bruises, the man, who had called her, watching them. Henry gulped down his words and staggered to his feet, absent-mindedly brushing himself off.

"What were you doing? What have I _told_ you?" the woman—her mother—scolded, a sharp tone of fear in her voice, "You remember what I told you in the subway after you gave that man Shelly? Don't talk to strangers! It could be dangerous!"

Butting in the moment her mother paused to take in a breath, the girl spoke as she ran her fingers along her daughter's head, searching for signs of harm.

"But Mommy, he almost ran into me, just like in Daddy's football show."

Henry froze in the midst of retreating as her father spurted out a very dark, protective _What?_ He had absolutely no time to do anything whatsoever but yelp as the man grabbed his arm, preventing him from leaving. If Henry had seen him in any other situation, the girl's father would not have created such a sharp fear within him. His jaw was soft, complemented by rough dark hair. He wore a bright polo and had leisure khakis, obviously a tourist. But here and now, towering over Henry with a fierce glower, he was downright terrified. The accusing tone of his voice didn't help at all either.

"Is that true?" He asked, pulling Henry so his back was to the lake before releasing him.

"Y-Yes sir," Henry confirmed, keeping his eyesight down at his shoes. Off to the side the girl was telling a grand story to her mother as she took her daughter's hand, examining his blood on her finger. The father continued to scold him, in such ways as "_What were you thinking? Did you not see her? You could've given her a concussion, you know!_" Henry was a mess of "yes sir" and "no sir", trembling and stuttering, trying to ignore his pain and not think too much about what the man towering over him would do.

"A boy your age should know better! You've had what, twelve years now to figure it out? Where are your parents anyways?"

A pang caught Henry. He wasn't twelve, not in the slightest. For some reason, he felt as though this mistake needed to be righted, and he needed to tell the man of his misconception.

"I—I...," Henry stuttered softly. The girl had finished telling her story to her mother, who stood up after wiping the blood off.

"Well?" The father asked one more time, impatient. Henry flinched back and continued to stammer even though it was far too soft to hear properly. He had not realized that he was now pressed up against the fence, gripping it tightly out of his own fear. The man opened his mouth to question him again when his wife stepped forward.

"Ethan, please," she interrupted. The father turned to her, exasperated. An unexpected rush of confidence then pummeled Henry, and for just a moment, he found the courage to speak.

"I'm nine." he blurted suddenly. Both adults paused and turned to him, and just like flicking a switch the confidence dissipated, and he cowered.

"Wait...What did he say?" The father asked. The woman, holding her daughter's hand, momentarily turned to him.

"He said he's nine, dear." Handing the girl off to him, she knelt down to examine Henry.

"Oh," The man exclaimed, eyes widening in shock as if the boy's age made all the difference, "_Oh_."

Henry flinched and squirmed as the mother's cool hand brushed his hair to the side. The girl watched on in interest as her father, apologetic, scratched the back of his head.

"I'm sorry, kid, I didn't—Wow," he breathed, suddenly realizing the state of Henry's chin—something that had been hidden as the boy had his head down the entire time, "That is a _lot_ of blood...!"

"It is," the mother murmured grimly in agreement, "Your daughter tells me it's because he fell while trying to avoid her," The girl tugged at his sleeve and nodded brightly, oblivious of the damage done to Henry.

"Why didn't he scream? Heck, why didn't _she_ scream, I mean, that's really scary...!"

"She probably doesn't know what blood is yet; she isn't a rough child," Gently she tilted his chin up despite his quiet winces, wiping the blood away with a kleenex, "Does it hurt?"

He gave a small gurgle in response. He didn't want to nod and upset the way the girl's mother held his chin, and he was too timid to speak. Twisting her mouth, she lightly scolded her husband for shutting him up, not allowing him to protest by asking the boy one more question as she parted his hair from his face.

"Where are your parents? Do they live here?"

Remembering everything in a catastrophic flood, Henry opened his mouth, blurted out a cry of realization, and tore away from the woman, managing to stutter a quick apology before bolting away to the bridge, stumbling and panting.

He didn't feel the presence of the family's eyes lift until he had crossed the bridge and entered the forest. Skipping off of the road, he took a beaten trail that led to the hotel's north gate, open for hikers, campers, and boys late for their dinner.

Freely sprinting down the primitive trail, he did not expect to meet anyone else on the path, even though the hotel was somewhat full of vacationers relaxing in the midsummer wilderness. At least though, after the previous incident, he was much more alert to his surroundings; that's why, through either that or through all of the luck in the world, he did not run face-first into a foreboding man in a long, dark coat.

It was firstly strange that he was wearing such a heave garment in summer, but as Henry tentatively glanced up, he guessed that the man had the excuse of being poor. His hair came down to his shoulders and was smeared with what appeared to be mud. (Henry couldn't tell in the sunset light blotted out by thick trees)

"Sorry...!" Henry said instinctively though nothing had really happened. The man stood there silently, almost eerily acting as a blockade. Feeling awkward, Henry began to tentatively inch around him, politely saying "excuse me" as he passed. He was just about to continue onwards (albeit disturbed) when the man spoke in a voice that was surprisingly not gravelly.

"Henry Townshend." he called, causing the boy in question to freeze and slowly turn around, heart beginning to pound crazily in his chest. The man in the coat turned around and smiled a smile whose warmth was ruined by the gleam in his eyes. Doing his best to keep his knees from buckling, Henry stared up at him, the wound on his chin forgotten.

"A word to the wise...," the man advised, taking a hand out from behind his back to give the boy a present.

Henry gawked and ever so gently took the present from the man, mostly from the utter shock. Visibly trembling, he felt his eyes burn with unseen tears as the owl was placed in his outstretched arms. The man smiled wider, and left without another word. Henry did not notice. His focus was fully on the mangled, dead barn owl now in his care.

It used to be something beautiful, he could tell. The owl had pure white feathers that transitioned to cream and mahogany on its back. Speckles of black littered the mahogany and circled around the pale white face. Its beak and talons were perfectly smooth and curved, peach in color and majestically sharp.

Now, the beak was pried open, making hideous room for the owl's gizzard to spew out. Yellow and bulbous, it hung limply by strands of red blood vessels disappearing messily down its throat. Some of the pure white feathers were stained an ugly brown from some unknown fluid that was trickling out of the gizzard. Its neck was broken, crooked feathers falling ungracefully from the twisted bones. The wings hung brutally broken as well, some bones even poking through the skin. The owl was stiff and lukewarm in his arms, having been killed within the past hour or so. Henry staggered and choked, falling down and finding support against a tree trunk. The owl's face flashed at him, nearly making him puke.

The eyes were carved out crudely. Nothing was left but bloody, endlessly deep eye sockets. They stared at Henry, pleading him, praying for his help. He gagged and began to cry. Sob. Bawl.

Huddling against the roots and trunk of the tree, he bawled like a needful infant. God help him, but he could not let go of the owl. Instead he gripped it in a tight, desperate hug, cautious to still hold it gently. He paid no mind to the fact that he would've been visible to every traveler that passed by. All that mattered to him now was the owl and its short, pitiful life.

He did not know how long he sat at the foot of the tree, bawling and holding the owl close to his chest. His chin, pain completely forgotten, brushed the owls feathers on the top of its head, staining the tips with his blood. What must've been an hour later his eyes were finally dry though his lungs and chest ached and coughed in a continuation of his mourning. He forgot everything, everything, from his dinner to what the man had said to him as he received the owl, to even the two lemon drops that were by now undoubtedly crushed in his pocket.

What happened next was all in a haze. Henry had eventually gathered himself together and had walked into the forest, loosely burying the bird in leaves, sticks, and top soil. Hollowly dragging his feet, he made his way back to the hotel room, entering silently. He remembered vomiting at some point. As he slowly shuffled to his room his mother made notice of the blood stains on his collar from his devastated chin. She told him to take care of it with the first aid in the bathroom, but did not ask how he got it. He did as she said though it seemed that he did not recognize her as being there in the first place. He changed his clothes, discarding the bloody ones merely on the floor (a rare act for him even if the clothes weren't blood-stained) and went to bed.

He hardly slept that night and for the next week.

–

Shortly after they had gotten back home in Portland, Henry's father spent an evening just like any other, watching the prime time news in the room adjacent to the kitchen. Henry was washing dishes by hand, for their dishwasher was acting up again. He heard from the other room of a news anchor reporting a murder in the streets of Silent Hill. Carefully setting down the plate he was rinsing, he crept to the open archway to see the television screen.

Two children, siblings, where hacked brutally with an axe, their hearts taken and numbers carved into their bodies.

07121, Billy Locane.

08121, Miriam Locane.

Any information on the potential murderer would be greatly appreciated, and the bodies were killed approximately so many days ago.

Henry did the math in his head.

They were murdered the same day he received his wisdom.


End file.
